


Ascension

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [17]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: A Question of Trust, Absent Parent(s), Bridal Gowns, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming full circle, F/M, Marriage Vows, Mourning for lost childhoods, Wedding Night, Wedding Preparations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8208446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: To have and to hold: For better or for worse; in sickness and in health; for richer or poorer.  Until death do us part.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Batman or the television series "Gotham"; this includes characters and events. I own my original characters and personal plot details. Thank you and please enjoy.

He’s the first customer in the store, exactly five minutes after it opens. The owner keeps a small group of employees under his charge, but personally attends to as many customers as he can. Victor, clearly a wealthy American with an excellent ear for the language and such a charming demeanor, warrants only the best and most attentive care possible. He’s barely a foot over the threshold before the old man is there, eager to help.

“ _Not to worry, my friend,_ ” the elder says in rushed Italian, after returning from the back room—from whence he promised a “magnificent surprise” fit for so momentous an occasion as a wedding—with a suit bag draped over one arm, “ _I have just what you need!_ ”

The suit lacks the silk-glove feel of which Victor is most fond—there are few sensations as thrilling as that of rough denim and slick leather bare against his scars, friction with every step—but it fits well enough. A legitimate example of fine Italian cloth work, the seams are perfect and the folds crisp. For purposes of tradition, he wears white beneath the familiarity of sin-black. At least he’ll take pride in fastening a final strip of cloth around his throat, while imagining all the different uses the garment might have elsewhere.

The owner fusses over him, checking every stitch and thread with tireless effort. He personally makes sure the shoes are polished to gleam before carefully packaging them in the box. As a favor to a first-time guest, he charges considerably less for the suit than the price tag initially declared. He then escorts Victor to the door and makes a recommendation for the florist down the street.

“ _She will make a pretty little bouquet for your bride, my friend._ ” He promises, with a wink and broad smile.

Victor takes the suggestion accordingly. The flower shop is a much larger establishment than the one he uses back in Gotham, but with more space comes more variety. Roses in every color. Tulips and Lilies. Baby’s Breath and Irises—he tucks away a thin smile while delicately drawing in their scent. His inner eye plays out a fantasy: petals strewn freely across silk bedcovers, plush carpeting, and living flesh of porcelain. He imagines gliding fingertips across their texture, painting invisible shapes in their wake, kissing paths across the flat span of a stomach, down to the hips, and—

“Can I help, sir?” a voice speaks from behind, and the fantasy drops to one side. No matter. He’ll pick it up later, when he’s alone.

The young lady is a bubbly little thing: big brown eyes, dark curls that bounce with every movement, and plump curves. The round line of her jaw accentuates the smooth line of her throat, and tucked neatly within warm folds is her pulse. _Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

He pretends to listen while she cheerfully rattles off all the available options, keeps his eyes on her throat, and quietly licks his lips.

For a spring wedding, she says, color is essential. She provides a demonstration, plucking a wild array from each display with great enthusiasm, then she bundles them all together and finishes the display with a lovely silk ribbon. Bright purple.

He murmurs thanks in Italian, adding a light kiss to her knuckles. Her cheeks flush pink to match the roses, and his gaze lingers on that lovely bloom of blood across her features. Sweet-tempered, but shy in the presence of a man’s attention. She would be a delightful delicacy.

Her provided display is impressive, but he is a man with simpler tastes and makes his request accordingly. He then makes a second request, in addition to the bridal bouquet. She obliges without pause, and this time with a smile tossed over her shoulder every few seconds. The blush remains. He feels something akin to hunger pangs rumbling deep in his gut. Within his trouser packet, the knife thrums with equal hunger. He quiets it with an idle touch.

_Later._

***

The bride-to-be is a petite blonde with sparkling brown eyes and sweet smiles. She stands on a small pedestal and twirls in place. Full skirts whirl around her like silk mist; the sequins sewn into her bodice sparkle in the light. Her mother sits nearby on a cushioned chair; aged hands are clasped to her heart, and adoration is etched deeply in her expression. This woman looks upon her daughter with love, pure and unashamed. Love and delight for so momentous an occasion as the wedding of her child.

The daughter rushes off the pedestal with a flurry of tulle and silk, and her mother’s arms are eagerly waiting. Their embrace is long, arms wound tightly around one another. Their smiles are uninhibited, their love unmistakable. The daughter fears nothing from her mother’s hands: no harm, no pain, no suffering. Her mother’s hands have possibly never been raised to strike her. If her mother has ever been the source of tears and grieving, of empty sorrow, there is no sign of it in this tender moment.

Iris walks slowly through aisles as though venturing through a mysterious forest of white. Her selection range is limited; there is no time for alterations and the like, so whatever she purchases must fit her without flaw. Still, she takes her time and looks at everything available in this place. It’s a cheerful little shop, adorned with tall windows and accented in white and ivory. There is simplicity to it that she finds attractive. Similar shops are few and far between in Gotham, and if one ventures outside the city, such establishments price their products at astronomical levels. Here, the price is reasonable, the staff is friendly, and sunlight pours in like it is the most natural thing to do.

It’s moments such as these that make her think of never returning to Gotham. Of living her days away from Gotham’s cold empty skies and the soul-sucking atmosphere that drains life and hope from her people. She thinks of buying a little home here, in the Italian countryside, where the skies are clear and blue, the sun shines bright, and the grass grows lush and green. It is a wondrous fantasy: to imagine her daughter running freely beneath a warm summer sky, climbing trees and playing in a little creek. A place to grow old with her husband, away from the ugliness that mars both their pasts, in their own quiet paradise.

A beautiful dream…but it’s not hers.

She takes refuge in the dressing room. She locks the door, enfolds herself in a dressing robe, and curls in the far corner. Her face buried in both hands, she suffocates sobs and buries tears in welcoming palms. She cries without sound and curses her mother’s memory. In silence, she demands to know why she was never enough; never enough to be loved, to be worthy of anything but hatred before she even drew breath. She grieves for what will never be. She cries for far too much left unsaid and undone.

And then she breathes, slowly, and stands. She wipes her face clean of tears, checks in the mirror, and then slips free of her robe. She has shed her last tears for a childhood lost. The past is the past.

The first dress she tries is a mermaid cut: fitted to the knees and then pooled wide around her feet. The fabric certainly highlights her figure (perhaps a little too much so), but restricts her movements. Her second choice looked much better on the hanger, where the full exposure of sheer side panels was cleverly disguised. This one leaves absolutely nothing for the imagination, and while she won’t be married a virgin, there’s no reason for her to be married dressed as a whore.

Finally, choice three: the bodice pays due homage, and the skirt showcases her leg with a cheeky slit up the left side. But the dress preserves modesty with full lace sleeves, and the skirts are wondrously light and loose. Silk fabric shimmers even under the florescent lights, and delicate lace accents around the bodice and waist compliment the sleeves. There’s something warm and familiar about such vintage elements; she thinks it reminds her of Grandmother’s wedding gown.

An attendant assists in requesting a veil, and produces a cathedral-length with lace trim to match. A modest pair of diamond earrings is a helpful suggestion from the same attendant, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, with a comment about how the light hits them perfectly.

Her reflection speaks truth, as it always has. It shows a young bride with old eyes, dressed in virgin white that hides sins of the soul. A past littered with gaping scars and ugly stains lies behind her, and before her…

***

She asked Victor—rather, begged and beseeched—to marry her in a church. It resulted in an…impassioned discussion, including considerable attempts at compromise on his part, but she remained unmoved. Her grandparents were married in a church. His parents were married (and buried, but she choose to leave that unsaid) in a church. It is a matter of tradition, of upholding certain familial values.

They find a little seaside chapel. The friar is a thin wisp of a man, weathered well by the years, with eyes blinking owlishly from behind thick lenses. He greets her privately, in the small room provided for her to dress, and congratulates her. He speaks English very well. She imagines he has—or will—offer the same words to Victor, as is customary. She accepts his words with a smile and gratitude for accommodating such short notice. He waves it off, says it’s nothing at all. She wonders if that’s really true, or if he’s simply eager to assist a young wealthy American couple.

It doesn’t really matter.

***

Sunlight floods through stained-glass panes, and a cool late afternoon breeze drifts through open doors. She stands near those doors, for just a moment, and a breath catches in her lungs. Behind her, an uncertain past: beginning with a life unwanted, bleeding into years of secrets and half-truths if not outright lies, marred with moments that left scars on memory and flesh alike…and it all accumulates to this. This place. This moment. …This man.

Victor wears the black suit and white shirt with refinement, and a solitary strip of blood-red around his throat. No hint of scars or past trauma can be seen. He stands with hands neatly clasped in front, and his eyes are for her. The smile grazing his lips is thin, a familiar expression, but his eyes are alight and speak volumes. There is pride in those eyes. Pride. Admiration. Desire.

She realizes, in a sudden burst of awareness, that his eyes are more than windows to his soul. They are the most expressive part of him. She remembers them in their first moment, beneath a bitterly cold winter night, with the moonlight a colorless flame in their depths. How they looked at her, considered her existence…and found something worth sparing.

Something worth loving.

Every step forward is an ascension; a rising to higher places. Her heart beats free within its bone restraints, her breaths are light and easy. Ugly emotions ripple away like lingering remnants of water, an old skin shed without remorse, and in its place an armor of strength and resilience. Hers is a soul that walked through fire, through ice, through the depths of Hell, and she stands with scars as lessons learned and memories never forgotten. She was borne a wayward pup, orphaned and abandoned, and now she walks She-Wolf, the mistress of her pack.

She is a princess dethroned and disgraced, now a Queen ascending to her throne.

Her hands entwine with Victor’s, fingers coiling around wrists and fastening one to the other. The friar blesses their union in the eyes of God, and while Victor’s mouth tightens in a hidden grimace, she only smiles. Let at least one thing he does in this life be sanctioned by the Almighty. It can hardly hurt.

Their vows are traditional, without embellishment or fancy details. Victor’s eyes glimmer in a way she recognizes, and his hold on her hands tightens while he swears to love her, to keep her, and to remain faithful in sickness and in health, for richer or poor, until death does them part.

_“You will not die. Not until it’s time. For both of us.”_

“Until Death do us part.” He whispers. His eyes are glittering sapphires in sunlight.

The friar asks the same of her: if she will love this man. If she will protect him and hold true to the vows made in this place before witnesses and before God. If she will remain faithful to him, honor him, keep him in sickness and in health. If she will have him as her husband, her life-mate, her one and only, until the day she dies.

_“You are mine. You will always come back to me.”_

“Forever and always.” She breathes. The ring on her finger gleams, as if declaring its own affirming vow.

“Then by the powers vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife.” The elder says; the words resonate in her ears, burning a path to her heart and scalding a mark in her memory. “Mr. Zsasz, you may kiss the bride.”

She waits with a flutter in her chest, rather like the night she first offered herself to him, but Victor moves with no urgency. He steps forward and his hands settle in place: one curved gently around her throat, the other resting firm to her belly. The message means nothing to their small audience, but it means everything to her. And when he finally kisses her, finally seals their vows before man and the Divine alike, she could almost swear to the feel of a second heartbeat, no more than a butterfly’s kiss, from within her core.

***

He takes his time. The knuckles he brushes across her cheeks are soft, even tender. No motion is rushed. He has no sense of urgency. Every touch is a brush stroke on this canvas, executed without flaw. When he finally pauses, it’s to take a step back and view his work.

He looks, studies it carefully, then frowns. _No._ Not quite right. Something is missing.

A few more minutes pass. His finger taps under the jaw with a thoughtful rhythm. It’s a puzzlement. He’s crafted similar work before, with the same tools, with the same thoughtful precision and crafted execution. Did his hand slip and distort the pattern? No; each stroke is just as it should be. Perhaps the flow is wrong, and the color—

_Color._ Of course, color. How could he forget? Work painted in solitary color is so dreadfully monotonous, and there’s far too much red.

He slips in through the back door and busies himself for a minute with the floral selection. Purple irises, to compliment the red. Then a handful of Baby’s Breath, for a delicate touch. Yellow roses, to mark joy and happiness. Finally, a handful of lilies.

He spends an additional half hour extracting each petal from its originating bud. The roses and irises he releases first, yellow and purple fluttering downward in a spiral of color. The Baby’s Breath is nearly crushed in his grip, then sprinkled like snowflakes. For the finishing touch, lily petals creating an outer circle, as if to ward off exterior forces from disturbing a final resting place.

A smile thins his lips; admiration dances across his expression. _Beautiful._

“You were so very helpful.” He murmurs, grazing knuckles over her plump cheek, once more, careful to avoid disturbing the petal formation. “Rest well now.”

***

The perfume of red roses wafts through the air as soon as he steps inside. Iris certainly spent the last two hours well: the suite is cast in golden hues with candlelight, the windows are cracked just enough to permit a cool evening breeze, and the aroma of jasmine weaves neatly with the rose petals. He takes a moment to savor it all, breathe it in, then continues undressing. The blood-stained shirt and jacket, he quietly places inside the hearth before sparking it to life. The flames hungrily lick up the offering, crackling merrily. He loses himself for a moment in their dance, gazing at drying streaks of red across white fabric. His fingers tingle, remembering the feel of soft skin growing cold, the light dying from clear brown eyes. The matting of chocolate curls in a pool of crimson glory. He slowly licks his lips.

“A bride does not appreciate being abandoned on her wedding night, _moy tigr_.”

“You were hardly abandoned, _mon amour_.” He answers, enjoying the flames one minute more, then turns and slowly straightens up. If his mouth is suddenly dry, he can hardly be blamed for it.

If Iris spared little expense on preparing the room, she’s certainly spared nothing on preparing herself. Black curls cascade loose in inky rivers from her scalp, framing her like a veil. Her face is clean of makeup, and the blue of her eyes is inexplicably sharper without unnatural assistance. Even at a short distance, he can smell her skin, her soap. Jasmine and vanilla. His mouth is watering.

She lazily rolls one hip to the side, resting a hand in place. She wears nothing but a most enticing set of lingerie and a smile, painted in lush red, fit to bring the Devil himself to both knees.

“And yet I was.” Iris murmurs. She leans forward, draws in a slow breath, then tilts back with sharply-raised eyebrows. “A rather floral composition, Victor. Cheaply made, at that. I thought your preference was of a higher quality.”

“Are you going to be this way all night?”

Her hand darts out, with the grace of a cobra’s strike, and locks around his mouth. She doesn’t hold the grip long, just enough to match the emphatic lift of her eyebrows. Her nails prick at his cheeks, very lightly. It’s a pleasant sensation, though not nearly as pleasant as the fiery glimmer in her eyes.

“Do not talk back to me.” She whispers.

_Release me_ , fights on the tip of his tongue, but the fire in her blue gaze holds him captive. She’s only ever seized dominance in moments of intense fury, when emotions run rampant and she attacks without composure. This…this is far too calculated to be another haphazard outburst.

Her eyebrows remain perfectly arched, but her eyelids lower. When her hand does relinquish the grip, it’s with another command. “Apologize.”

A ripple runs across his limbs, quite against his will. He knows the game she’s playing, and it’s not hers to play. This is _his_ game. “Iris—”

“I said,” her finger presses tight to his mouth, nail scraping with more intent this time, “apologize. Do not make me ask again, Victor.”

He exhales slowly, tightly. His game. _His_ game. …But her eyes shimmer with black fire and there is venom on her tongue. Temptation to test her wars briefly with simple survival instinct, and the latter wins. “…I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She murmurs. Her finger remains in place, lightly tracing the line of his mouth. “Now then…you left me alone, husband. And when I am left alone, my mind begins to wander. And when my mind wanders, it begins to get ideas. Some are terrible. Others are…inspiring.”

The crook of a smile lifts one corner of her mouth, flashing white teeth like a wolf preparing for its meal. “So tonight…we are going to play a different game, my husband. Tonight, you belong to _me_.”

***

It surprises him, when he realizes just how cruel she is. Her weapons are not whips and chains; she does not bite, strike, or use a blade against him. The weapons she wields are worse. Much worse.

With silk, she binds his wrists to the bedposts and steals his sight. She spreads his arms wide, mounts him to expensive sheets and velvet bedcovers like a butterfly, and leaves him blind. Still half-dressed, without a mark or hint of violence to mar his skin, and yet he feels more exposed and vulnerable than he ever should. He is not a child anymore. He is not a lost soul, wandering the streets after burying both parents deep in the dirt, without any thought for a future. He is a creation of his own making, Gotham’s own devil, the master of his own fate…and yet here he is.

She is crueler than he imagined.

Fingertips trail feather-light across his shoulders, appearing from above and gliding downward. Unlike so many times before, those hands evade each tally, every scar, and glide the narrow path between unmarked skin with skillful delicacy. Ghosting caresses, barely a breath of sensation, leave his nerves aching and wanting. Still, he locks his jaw and bites within until blood leaks across his tongue. She won’t take him so easily.

The challenge, silent though it is, seems to be taken in stride. She doesn’t make a sudden change—he wishes she would, just to get this wretched teasing over with—and instead continues on her merry way. Unhurried. Unconcerned. He’s quite certain he hears her humming softly in his ear.

“I can play this game as long as you can hold out, my love.” She murmurs. “We have all night.”

All night to play a game and declare the winner.

A low exhale against his shoulder, then a kiss in the same place. He can feel her smile: a sharp, thin paper cut of an expression. If he shifts, if he presses into it hard enough, will it cut him? Leave a tiny scar distinct from the others?

“It is really so very simple, Victor.” Iris continues, breath a light tickle against his lobe. “You have done it before, more than once in fact. Why is it so difficult for you to do it again, hmm?”

He growls; a few subtle shifts neither escape her notice (not when she’s this close and when she knows his body language so well) nor do him any good. The knots around his wrists don’t threaten circulation, but they’re unyielding. Clearly, he tied her to his headboard one too many times, and she’s learned quite well from each one.

Her hands ascend, interlacing their fingers, while her body comes to rest atop his. A deliciously warm weight that steals a groan and sparks ignored nerves back to life. She kisses a lazy path along his throat, and then lapses into more deliberate motions at his pulse. His fingers lock tighter, clenching around hers, but if she’s in pain or discomfort, no sound indicates as much.

“Release me.” He whispers, grip bruising now, yet still she barely flinches.

“No.” she answers, simple as that. “You continue to see me as a lover to be conquered, and I am not. By your own seeking, I am your _wife_. You wish to show me— _prove_ to me—marriage is not an iron shackle which both binds and torments, before it turns man and woman into rabid dogs clamoring for each other’s throats? Begin now, this first night. Begin by showing me you _trust_ me.”

“…How?”

It’s a reluctant question, but each point made is valid. He has, as she once pointed out so candidly, seen marriage through different eyes. He’s seen marriage as a bond of love, and reaped the benefits of it with eager hands. Rumors of the DeLaine marriage were widespread, and in his early tenure under Don Falcone, he once thought the gossip to be embellished and mere proof of people’s desire to turn the scandalous into something sordid. But he was wrong. The stories Iris has told him prove as much: very little of the stories were not rooted in some truth. As such, he knows _trust_ is a foreign concept, when placed in the context of marriage.

He also knows what _trust_ implies, for Iris. And he’s not completely fond of that part.

“You know what I am.” He says, slowly and rather tightly. She nuzzles deep into his throat, kissing lightly.

“And if I wished for you to change,” she murmurs at his pulse, “do you really think I would ever have allowed you to leave me tonight, even for a short while?”

The woman can be wondrously infuriating: she has him bound and blindfolded in bed, both of them half-dressed, and she’s choosing now to make a logic-based argument. It shouldn’t take as much effort as it does to make her lose composure and self-control and fall headfirst into pure sensation.

Of course, he’s not exactly one to talk on this subject. The idea of falling into sensation, nothing more and nothing less, demands a total loss of control. And he possesses no illusions about his need for control. Too many people and unforeseen forces have stripped him of control in years past; he’s never seen the benefit in surrendering it himself.

That being said…his wife is making a notably-convincing argument. Mainly with the incredibly distracting way she’s kneading his pulse with her teeth and working his blood into a scalding river.

When her hands slip free of his hold, it’s with minor indignation on his part, all of which promptly evaporates when those hands drop to his waistband and make short work of remaining clothes. Of course, true to form, she denies him any kind of relief or satisfaction. Instead, she pays gentle homage to his legs, beginning at the feet and creeping upwards. It’s quite aggravating, to be biting his tongue for the sake of dignity while his nerves shriek for more, and she’s content as a cat in the sunbeam.

Her mouth grazes his upper right hip, and his body jerks without permission, betraying his demand for composure and throwing itself into any drop of stimulation she’ll provide. The fresh mark is unbearably sensitive, and it commandeers the rest of him for want of touch. He’s half-fit to curse it for this treachery.

Iris hums softly, then he feels the silky brush of her hair on his leg before the heat of her mouth returns, this time without delicacy. He isn’t quick enough to suffocate the moan before it punches free, then feels his lips move around a locked whisper.

Her head lifts, just slightly, and he can almost imagine the inquiring lift to her eyebrows. “Forgive me, my love…I did not quite catch that?”

The word eagerly abides by her command; even his lips and tongue have turned traitor now. “Please.”

She hums, softer this time, with one hand trailing lazily up his thigh. “Why must you make this so difficult, Victor?” her tone sounds lightly amused, “Your control issues are unmatched, even by your wife.”

The fingers of her free hand (finally) flick the blindfold away, just in time for him to fix her with a glare. “A debatable point, to say the least.”

Her left eyebrow quirks, her lips thin into a smirk, and she looks like she’s about to say something extremely sassy. “I have never been above begging you to take me until we break the bed.”

…Well, _that_ idea certainly has merit on their wedding night. Or it would, if not for these infernal restraints. “Your point?”

“I should think it is obvious.” Iris rolls onto one side, stretched across the mattress, but leaves one hand teasing his hip. “You can argue I have had the dominant position plenty of times, but it remains by _your_ command and with _your_ permission. I have been driven out of my mind for want of your touch and your body, and you? You remain in control. I have lost myself in you, to throw myself wholeheartedly into your care, because you are, and have always been, safe for me. But you do not—or will not; I have yet to determine which—trust me to be safe for you.”

“My work is safe.” _I decide when they leave this earth. They don’t get to decide. They don’t leave._

“Your work, my beloved,” she chides, walking two fingers up his side, “is one day going to earn you a personalized cell in Arkham Asylum. Besides, will you deny it is temporary? What happens when you are too old or infirm to continue your work?”

The image is distinctly unpleasant to consider, especially on his wedding night. Besides, he doesn’t stomach “what if” in any form. “What if” implies a loss of control, an inability to command and dictate future events. “What if” was nothing but the product of a child’s curiosity, until it became a bitterly cold reality.

“You trusted me once, _moy tigr_.” She breathes, and her fingers glide across his arm, across the scars, across _the scar_ , in such a way that his nerves nearly declare ecstasy. “Trust me again. Trust me completely.”

With grace befitting a feline, she drapes her legs over his hips. Her weight and heat is eagerly (shamelessly, even) welcomed against aching flesh. Within their restraints, both hands fist and tighten until he feels the prick of trimmed nails into palms. So close, yet still so far. It’s not enough.

He misses her fingers plucking the bonds loose until one hand falls free to the pillow. By the time he remembers himself enough to reach for her, she’s ready and waiting with open palms that ensnare him and tangle fingers together once more. It’s intimate, binding. It sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

She is beautiful. Perfect. Black velvet cascade from the scalp, bone and muscle and blood carefully cocooned in white flesh, sapphires glimmering in their feathery frames, and all of it highlighted in soft golden light. Behind them, a fire crackles ever merrily in the hearth, and its shadows dance along the walls.

His gaze drops to her left hand. Candlelight plays wonderfully over the ring, sparkling stones to life like fireworks. He thinks, briefly, of Mother, and what she would have thought of the woman now deemed her daughter-in-law. He imagines she would have approved. Father, he’s quite certain, would have been relieved to know the abomination that was Marcus DeLaine never poisoned the blood in his offspring.

He tugs that hand forward, presses his lips to her thin knuckles, and exhales slowly before relinquishing control back to her. She leans closer, balancing atop their joined hands, and her hair tumbles around his face. Jasmine and vanilla.

“My wolf.” He breathes. She smiles: a delicate, fragile expression he hasn’t seen in years. The smiles she wears for the world, for her city, are sharp at their corners and thin in the center. This…this isn’t the rehearsed gesture he taught her. This is raw, unrefined, and incomparably beautiful.

“Ache for me, my tiger in the night.” She whispers, brow resting light on his. “Want me. Need me. Be incomplete without me. Seek me as you must oxygen. Take me in: under your skin, into your veins, in the marrow of your bones. Be empty, hollow, lifeless without me. Live for me. Die for me. _Love_ me.”

The images spiral across his inner eye, a kaleidoscope of wonder dancing without pause. They inspire his mind and they ensnare his breath as if in a vice. _Glorious._

“Teach me.” He breathes. Her smile could scarcely be more radiant.


End file.
